Sax and Violins
by AliCat713
Summary: A typical day for a lab tech.  Think you can handle it?  Originally posted to Geekfiction on LJ on July 19, 2007.


**Author's Note**: Original idea was to be in response to prompt 28: Lost at** gsrdrabbles** on LiveJournal; unfortunately it grew exponentially beyond drabble-size and I'm not sure I can post it there. Many thanks to **gentlycollapse** LiveJournal for betaing this, even when she's not a GSR fan and I think I scarred her for life. Any mistakes are obviously mine from the last revision, because she doesn't make mistakes. Originally posted on July 19, 2007 to my LJ.

_And in my best behavior, I am really just like him.  
Look beneath the floorboards, for the secrets I have hid._

**Sax and Violins**

Every job has perks; mine is no different.

I get a full dental plan, partial medical coverage, and time-and-a-half most days - depending on the urgency of the cases I'm working. I get all the county-funded coffee I can stomach and the best room for observing the comings and goings in the lab. The most interesting gossip comes to me because, frankly, I don't repeat it. Not many of the others can say that with any degree of truth; but I'm good with secrets.

I can't tell you how many rumors – both true and exaggerated – I've heard about Grissom and Sara.

In addition to all that, I have access to all the audio/visual equipment anyone could ever want, with the possible exception of Greg.

Another perk to the job is this: if I look busy enough, I won't be bothered. There are weeks' worth of backed-up tapes and DVR'ed imagery for me to work through, so most of the regular night-shift crew leave me be, assuming I'm working on an ongoing case unless I call them with results. Grissom is about the only one who comes in unannounced; and that's nothing I can't handle. Give him results, a spotless zoom-in on a suspect, and he's off in his own mind calculating things again.

No one has ever noticed when I bring in my _own_ work.

That's _definitely_ a perk.

I'm a man who enjoys my work. Sure, my eyes get tired at times; but there's something so satisfying, so mesmerizing, about being closed off from everyone else here in my little studio. It's like my own world. With top-of-the-line audio equipment comes headphones most people would die to get their hands on; when those babies are over my ears, I don't hear the buzz of lab equipment, or the insistent clop of Catherine's heels, or the sounds of Greg's music as he's working in the layout room. Usually, if I'm not processing an audio recording, I've got some sort of music in: jazz, mostly, but sometimes hip-hop or classical if the mood strikes me.

With the sort of funding that comes into the #2 lab in the country, we can afford all the best visual equipment too; hell, I can see the individual serrated edges of a steak knife at 500 magnification on this machine here without losing any detail due to pixellation. I can zoom in or cut a piece of film, and it's like it was always that way to begin with; not a flaw in sight.

I'm getting hard just thinking about it.

But another incentive is the way these machines operate. I can be listening to one thing while I process the visuals from a second crime scene. When the boss decides to come in and ask for specifics on the Hanson Brother's Towing murder case, I've got the tape in the machine, ready to zoom in on the perp's face. Usually, I already have what they want waiting on them just so I can get them out of the room faster.

I mean, look at this caseload. I do have other work, right?

So while the Hanson Brother's Towing murderer is wiping his hands off on his overalls over and over and over on my screen as I pause and rewind, I can be listening to the sounds of an altogether different sort of scene in my headphones.

I bet you might even recognize some of the voices on those recordings.

My favorite all week has been the one from Grissom's office I recorded on a Saturday not too long ago. I remember it because it was his day off, and it's not like he takes many of those. He was called in to process what might have been a murder at a high school; he was frustrated all day, snapping at Hodges and cursing under his breath. No one knew why he was that way, exactly; I mean, he'd been upbeat since he got back from his teaching gig, but I guess he was bound to get bearish again sooner or later.

No one understood it - except for me.

Another benefit of being well-liked and well-respected is that I can go just about anywhere in the building without raising suspicions. I mean, why would **I** raise suspicions? I'm known for being dependable, trustworthy; I'm a fixture, have been for years now. I'm just a _tech geek_ – got a gold level membership in The Final Frontier Club to prove it. So if I do something like slip inside my boss' office when he's out at a crime scene, no one really notices. A tweak here and a modification there, and I've got just what I want: a peek into Grissom's life.

Hell, I was doing this a long time before that hack job Nigel Crane decided to go after Nicky. And Nick? Not as interesting as some of the other guys, let me tell you. Crane had it all wrong. Nicky's a hero; an open book. Grissom… well, he's not.

So anyway, while I'm sitting here splicing together the damning bits of film that make – or break -- cases, I can listen to whatever I want. And what I want, _right now_, is that particular conversation of Grissom's from a few months ago.

I find it goes well with the present visuals.

"_Hello?"_

--A pair of denim-clad legs, barely visible, entering the body shop of Hanson's. –

"_Hey, baby, how's the case going? Need me to come back in?"_

--A pause. Looks like the perp is thinking about something, hesitating in the edge of the frame; his hand sneaks just inside the frame toward the wide-lipped pocket of his pants. –

"_Sara, honey. Just… talk to me. I need to hear your voice." _

--The man reaches into his left pocket, pulling out a knife he's clearly brought with him from home. You don't find knives like this around body shops. –

"_Mmm, sounds like you still wish you hadn't gotten that call from Jim. Where were we?"_

"_Sara. __**Talk**__ to me." The deep growl in his voice is a perfect counterpoint to…_

--The shuffling snick of the man's shoes still echo in my head as he kicks against a nearby chain, despite the fact that the audio is turned off. –

"_Mmm. You still hard for me, Griss? Still wishing you were home, between my legs? I bet there's plenty of room under that desk for me… Maybe I should come in there right now and find out?" An anxious mewl is heard in the background; Grissom's reaction. "How about it? Should I slip under your desk, pull out that delicious prick of yours and suck you off?" Her voice is husky, deeper than I've ever heard it before. Oh, yeah. She's done this before, and it runs right up my spine to hear simple Sara Sidle talking like a whore. _

--The victim turns, a small guy, unassuming; he makes himself seen on camera. He can tell what's coming; if I had the volume up, I'd be able to hear him begging.—

_While Grissom does a little begging of his own. "Sara, are you in the building?" A breathless moan, the rasp of an undone zipper._

"_Why don't you close the blinds, baby; I'm almost at your door now. You can meet me halfway if you want…"_

"_Oh, Sara. Oh, I want." A chair scraping across the tiles; the sound of the blinds' slats closing rapidly adding a contrast to Grissom's harsh breathing. Like the harsh breathing of that unfortunate employee of Hanson's…_

--There's a struggle on camera; the perp has his back to it, so the victim's face, his wide-eyed horror, his frantic struggle for survival, is in perfect focus. –

_As a door handle is clicked open; the slick sound of frantic kissing an excruciating harmony to the struggle on-screen. A soft thump as Grissom's body is likely pushed against the door; a wet, slick sound as Sara opens her mouth, deliberately smacking as she does so…_

--And, finally, the killer has the upper hand; slicing at his victim's arms, he's now completely visible on camera. I can see the fire of insanity behind his eyes; if his friends could see him like this, they'd no doubt be running for their lives.—

_The sound of sucking is clear, would be clear to anyone who's ever experienced it before. Grissom's moans are punctuated by the sloppy, wet sounds of Sara's mouth pulling at him. It's clear, so obvious, that she's pushed him to the edge, that he's so close to coming. She's moaning now, too; he can only imagine what those vibrations are doing to Grissom, so close, so close…_

--So close, as the blade plunges into the victim's neck; twice, a third time, tearing a hole deep enough that the fleshy shape of his trachea – or what's left of it – is evident on camera. The blood is arching out, bright rivulets of crimson splashing across the floor… –

_And as Grissom falls, falls over the edge, plunging down the precipice of that heated awareness, spilling himself in Sara's willing mouth, lost, so lost…_

--The victim crumples to the floor; his body falling in time to the strangled moans of Grissom's orgasm. –

My recordings are both over, but not before the killer takes one last look at the camera, in perfect time with the sounds of Sara zipping Grissom's pants; the sound of a wet, heated kiss coincides seamlessly with my own face, winking at myself from the camera's captured video.

I watch regretfully for the last time as I see myself wipe my hands on the overalls I'd borrowed from the LVPD garage; once, twice, three wipes just to be sure. It's interesting to view myself this way; both as the observer in this chair and the observer from my memory. A sort of doubling occurs for me; I'm both in the video, watching myself watch _me_, and outside of it all, watching, watching…

Checking around me for any curious eyes, I slip my hands down my pants to remove the evidence of my recent excitement. I always slip on a condom for this kind of work; I know from experience that I'll stay hard for hours just thinking about these tapes, so it's easy enough to slip on a condom during my state-mandated break. Sure, I lose a few drops now and then; but I know from experience that if I didn't have one on when I watch my tapes, I'd need to duck out and change my pants.

I can't exactly leave my room like that, now can I? Evidence _everywhere_.

Using the top-of-the-line computer programs the county has provided me, I scramble the video; not even I could recover the face of _this_ killer.

Not even if I wanted to.

There's a lot to be said for modern technology; and even more to be said for people still using VCR's hooked up to their security cameras. Magnetic media is so much easier to fudge than the security firms ever tell people about; I only know it because it's my work.

It's a good job with plenty of learning opportunities.

Like I said, every job has its perks.

Mine's certainly no different.

**A/N #2**: Lyrics are from _John Wayne Gacy, Jr_by Sufjan Stevens. The title is taken from a Talking Heads song, for anyone who might be interested. :-) I haven't read any other Psycho Lab Rat stories, but I'm sure they're out there; this one doesn't intentionally mimic anyone else's work, so my apologies for any similarities to anything else out there. While the idea for this flowed frighteningly easily, the words didn't, so forgive any horribleness in here.


End file.
